


Empty Seams (Rebuild My Heart)

by dreamtowns



Series: scattered hearts and restless lungs [2]
Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Ambiguous/Open Ending, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Depression, Eating Disorders, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Implied Child Abuse, Kenma and Shoyo are siblings, Kuroken if you squint, Past Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Past Child Abuse, Past Child Neglect, Read at Own Risk, Recovery, Trigger Warnings, bokuaka if you squint, family au, kagehina if you squint
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-15
Updated: 2017-01-15
Packaged: 2018-09-17 19:11:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,184
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9339017
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dreamtowns/pseuds/dreamtowns
Summary: It’s been three years. Three years since his older brother left for Tokyo, unknowingly leaving him to drown and suffocate. Three years later, Shōyō looks at empty eyes staring at him through the mirror, and he wonders where his life ended and where it began—and if he could learn to breathe again.The sequel to Shatter Me (Piece Me Back Together)





	

**Author's Note:**

> Due to popular demand, I’ve decided to continue with Shatter Me (Piece Me Back Together). This is Part 2, the conclusion. Sorry for taking so long with this, the words were being quite stubborn. This deals with Hinata’s recovery, and it won’t be a pretty, fluffy story. He will be suffering, but I won’t go into detail too much. Nonetheless, please read this with caution.   
> Please be careful.

_In and out._

Someone walks by room 363, chatting quietly with a nurse in scrubs.

_In and out._

“Who’s in there?” curiously, they question.

The nurse sighs, a somber tone floating in the air. “Oh, the poor dear,” she speaks quietly, “I’m not supposed to tell you everything but I can say that he’s an abuse victim. Currently, he’s recovering from asphyxiation.”

_In and out._

“Hinata-kun’s a survivor, huh?”

_One…two…three…_

“Because he’s so unresponsive, we think it’s due to the psychological trauma of his past,” the nurse continues. Their voices were trailing down the hallway as they walked past the room. “If Hinata-kun speaks, it’s in monosyllabic replies. He only eats with a direct command. Dr. Kaneko, his doctor, thinks he’s regressing.”

_One…two…three…_

“Do you think there’s a chance he could heal?” the man questions.

_One…two…three…_

“There is always a chance, Hasegawa-san,” murmurs the nurse.

_Breathe, Shōyō, breathe…_

Shōyō opens his eyes, staring at the white ceiling of his walls. It’s been seven weeks—seven weeks since his father nearly committed filicide. Seven weeks ago, the secret he insisted on taking to the grave was unearthed in a grotesque fashion. When he had come to, Dr. Kaneko told him that his father had abandoned him to die in a house built on misery and broken dreams. Shōyō doesn’t remember much of what conspired, but sometimes he feels phantom hands curling around his neck, squeezing, choking, suffocating his lungs. He remembers a piercing scream echoing inside of the hallways when his mother crashed inside of a house she swore she’d never return to. Shōyō remembers Natsu, his baby sister, wailing during the confusion, asking why her big brother was almost blue, and he remembers Kenma’s quiet sobs wetting his cheeks as there was a vain attempt of mouth-to-mouth respiration.

Shōyō can remember Kuroo calling for an ambulance. 

_“MY SON_ _—_ _HOW COULD YOU_ _—_ _THAT’S MY SON_ _—_ _,”_

Oxygen crawls inside of his lungs, stretching them, as Shōyō breathes deeply, quietly. Although his chest moves, and his heart pumps, Shōyō doesn’t think he’s breathing. He moves his fingers, and his limbs are numb, and his mind churns out thoughts like clockwork, but Shōyō isn’t certain if he is truly alive. He is a ghost, drifting through the motions of daily life. He smiles, mechanically, when it is expected, and he replies robotically. He is breathing, but he isn’t.

Shōyō is dead, but he is also alive.

He resides in a small, local hospital created solely for young adult rehabilitation. The hospital prides itself in customer privacy, so seldom few know where Shōyō is. Not even the local papers, which erupted with news on the abuse scandal in their small town, could inform the public where he recovering. If anyone asked, Shōyō didn’t care if people knew who he was or where he was. It didn’t bother him. 

Every time he walks out of his room, he is surrounded by smiling nurses and optimistic doctors. He’s surrounded by people who are broken and shattered and lifeless. He is surrounded by people who don’t know what to do anymore. This hospital is littered with ghosts, and the living dead.

Mizutani Haru, a teen his age, knocks on his door. The hospital uniform is pristine and crisp on his figure—gray drawstring sweatpants, and a white tank top. Mizutani is one of the few teens capable of smiling brightly in this solemn place. “Hinata-kun, you’ve got visitors,” Mizutani says, leaning against the doorframe. “Someone’s popular today.”

Shōyō hums, immobile. A few minutes’ pass, and he climbs out of bed. His limbs are hollow and his heart aches with each step.

Beating.

Breathing.

Withering.

Mizutani guides him towards the waiting room, a chipper and comforting figure at his side. Silently, the teen gives him strength. The waiting room is a large space, once used as a recreational room when there was a smaller population residing in the hospital.  Littering the room are circular, smooth-edged tables and wicker chairs. Upon entering, Shōyō recognizes a few fellow patients—sitting near the windowsill is the kleptomaniac Sakurai Mai; near the small table of drinks and snacks is the anorexic Yamada Kazuhiro; Aoki Rei, another teen plagued by a history of abuse, was quietly sitting in the corner with her visitor.

“They’re over there with the card games,” Mizutani says.

Shōyō’s attention is directed towards one of the tables that holds games and such to make the atmosphere less dreary and somber. Yamaguchi Tadashi is sitting at a round table for two. Confused, Shōyō makes his way towards the boy who tried his best to get him away from his father.

_“Do you want to get out?”_

Once Shōyō settles himself in front of Yamaguchi, the other teen brightens. “Hey, Shōyō,” Yamaguchi grins. Shōyō’s heart aches—he misses that smile. He misses Karasuno—hell, he even misses Tsukishima Kei.

“Tadashi,” Shōyō mumbles.  

“How are you doing?” Yamaguchi asks.

“Fine,” Shōyō deadpans.

Yamaguchi nods, nonplussed at the monosyllabic response, and motions towards the card deck in the middle of the table. “Do you want to play Go Fish?”

Shōyō gives his visitor, and friend, a look of curiosity before nodding. Yamaguchi wastes no time in dishing out the correct number of cards once it was shuffled twice. They play the game quietly, content to be around one another. Shōyō’s shoulders lose its’ tension and he relaxes in the presence of his friend.

Softly, after Shōyō grabs another card from the deck, Yamaguchi explains, “Custody was transferred to your mother yesterday afternoon.”

Shōyō stiffens. Not many choose to bring up the topic of his family—not the therapist, not the doctors. The air surrounding their small table freezes as Yamaguchi quietly awaits his response. Once Shōyō can calm his trembling limbs and pounding heart, he looks into his friends’ eyes.

Yamaguchi understands the silent question and says, “Your father was sentenced on the charges of child abuse, child endangerment, child neglect, and attempted murder. He has no parole or bail. I don’t know how many years he got but it’ll be a long time before he gets out of prison, Shōyō.”

The rest of the room grows quiet, white background noise, as Yamaguchi’s words connect inside of his mind. There’s a gaping hole that aches and slithers in and out of his chest. It burns. It screams. It breaks into pieces that leave Shōyō scattered. It’s an ache he must learn to live with as the sun dips underneath the horizon. It’s an ache he must carry as a burden, as a reminder of the boy he is now and the boy he once was.

_“I know what it’s like.”_

Once again, he is a ghost.

_“Be happy, Shōyō.”_

He is a shrinking storm, drifting away in the wind, pathetic against the forces that dare him to rebel.

_“Volleyball is meaningless_ _—_ _give up this idiotic dream of yours.”_

He’s tired. Is it too much to ask, to go to sleep?

_“Do you want to get out?”_

It’s nine in the afternoon, and visiting hours are long over. The bathroom is bathed in white and baby proof locks. There is no shower curtain or hooks for towels, just a toilet, a shower without a tub, and a round, smoothed counter and sink. There is a mirror, however, though those are only in the rooms where patients aren’t suicidal or self-harming.

Shōyō isn’t any of the two—he’s just a boy with an abusive past. He’s a boy with selective muteness. He’s a boy with haunted eyes and a gaping hole that only he can feel. He’s a boy that doesn’t know how to live anymore.

_Why am I here?_

_What is my purpose?_

Golden orbs peer at him. They’re lifeless, wary, and somber. Shōyō hasn’t seen the sun in seven weeks, refusing to step out into the courtyard, so he’s paler than normal. Natsu told him he looked like a vampire the last time she visited, before offering to be his blood donor. Some things haven’t changed, however. Shōyō is still short, unbearably so, and there is barely any meat on his bones. Dr. Kaneko assumes his father starved him periodically, but Shōyō and Yamada Kazuhiro knew the truth.

Shōyō punished himself by eating smaller amounts or skipping meals. Sometimes, like the night Yamaguchi figured out his secret in the training camp, Shōyō would force the food out of his stomach. There was no control variable—but it was a way for Shōyō to feel accomplished, almost, as if he had finally done something right, something worth being proud of.

Yet now, however, throwing up provides energy Shōyō doesn’t have to give. Everything required energy he didn’t have, didn’t want to have. Wallowing and wasting away were more fitting but Shōyō sees the desperate gleam in his mothers’ eyes whenever she visits, sees the despondency scrawling over Kenma’s face when he tells him about his volleyball tournaments.

_“Don’t worry, Hinata, your senpai will take care of you!”_

Bitter, caustic laughter piles up in his throat. He wonders how Karasuno was faring with the knowledge that one of their own was getting harmed underneath their noses. He wonders how Tobio was dealing with the knowledge; the teen hasn’t visited yet. It’s only been his family and Yamaguchi. Natsu doesn’t understand what’s going on; only knowing that Shōyō was hurt and needed time to heal. She drew him cards, and small comic strips with stick figures that brighten Shōyō’s day.

It’s nine at night, lights out at the hospital, but sleep isn’t easy for Shōyō anymore. Sleep is filled with the memories of his darkest days, and lunging fists, and spewing words. Sleep is tainted with his blood, his broken dreams of volleyball courts and little giants fighting battles in the air. Sleep is nothing more than a nightmare that refuses to cease.

Tears stream down his face as he smothers his sobs. The walls are paper thin, a safety precaution, so those on nightshift would hear his sobs in an instant. They’d know he was awake. They’d know he was showing an emotion. His father preached that emotions were dangerous—they made you powerless, made you weak and pliable.

Shōyō crumbled, his knees touching the cold tile.

He wants to go back to days filled with laughter and volleyball. He wants to go back to climbing trees and sharing popsicles with Tobio in the backyard. He wants to go back to a house where his mother and Kenma lived. He wants to go back to days of small giants and a hope that sings. He wants to go back to the days where he knew what it meant to live and he knew how.

_Why am I here?_

He didn’t want this gaping hole and aching heart. He didn’t want these haunting white walls. He didn’t want misery and melancholy as the blood in his veins. He didn’t want to struggle to breathe. He didn’t want to survive. He didn’t want to wonder where his life truly ended and if it would begin again.

Shōyō wants to live.

He wants to be happy.

_“I just want you to be happy, Sho-chan!”_

There is a puddle of tears soaking his thighs. Unable to suppress the cries that spilled out of his mouth, Shōyō breaks and crumbles. His sobs are haunting. The gaping hole stretches with his lungs, pulsing, beating, aching. A nurse (she smells like cherry blossoms) kneels beside him. She rubs his back, a silent support. Dr. Kaneko would be alerted of his breakdown in the morning, and it would be deemed as “progress”, but Shōyō didn’t particularly care.

He is tired of being tired.

He is tired of surviving.

He is tired of struggling.

Exhaustion seeps to the white of his bone, but Shōyō doesn’t know how to make it ebb.

_“Do you want to get out?”_

The following day, Shōyō enters Dr. Kaneko’s office for their daily session. He is silent as he peers at the man with square-rimmed glasses. Silence floats in the room, floats around them, caresses them, but Shōyō will not speak, will not let such a silence break. As if realizing his internal determination, Dr. Kaneko says, “So I heard you were having some trouble last night.”

 _Understatement,_ Shōyō thinks but gives the doctor a slow, lethargic, blink.

“You should know by now that it isn’t healthy for you to be holding all of this inside of you, Hinata-kun,” Dr. Kaneko tells him. Concern shines in the mans’ dark brown orbs. Shōyō stays quiet (when is he not?). “It’s okay to show emotion, Hinata-kun. It’s alright to cry and ask for help. They aren’t signs of weakness. No one can be strong forever.”

_“Be happy, Shōyō,”_

_What is happiness?_

Dr. Kaneko sighs, rubbing his temples, and he takes off his glasses. “I know this is hard to believe, Hinata-kun,” he says, eyes determined and firm, “but you _will_ get better. It will be difficult, and there will be relapses, but you will survive.”

_Survive._

Shōyō is tired of surviving.

_I don’t want to survive._

Shōyō wants to live.

It is a cold, chilly afternoon, when Kenma visits him. Shōyō is exhausted, and he is scraping at the bottom of the barrel for energy. He had taken a nap earlier, after his therapy session, and was plagued by insistent memories of his father looming over him. Shōyō doesn’t remember the nightmare exactly, but remnants of his terror and desperation curl around his neck like a noose. The staff assumed he wasn’t having the best of days, and left him to his quiet devices. They’d check up on him here and there, keeping his door open as protocol ordered, but, otherwise, his room was quiet.

Every time they poked their head inside, Shōyō remained, curled into a tight ball, on his bed.

Shōyō hates this. He despises how his father can render him helpless by a mere memory. He hates the way his limbs freeze at the thought of his father reentering his life. He hates the way an iron ball drags him further and further into the water. Dr. Kaneko once explained that it was trauma and PTSD, but Shōyō hates those words. They settle like ash on his tongue.

What is Shōyō, if he is not a victim?

_“I want to be happy.”_

_What is happiness?_

Kenma is comforting and quiet, sinking down next to him on the bed. Unlike his mother, Kenma doesn’t pepper him with questions on how he feels. His older brother has always been quiet. Everything Kenma did, it was with a soft, quiet passion. Everything Shōyō did was loud and vibrant. It was bright and unkempt. Kenma was quiet nights spent curling up on a coach. Shōyō was a road trip in the middle of the night with a hometown shrinking in the distance. But then a relentless storm entered, and Shōyō was caught in the middle of a war. Shōyō used to be loud, but being loud was too dangerous.

Silence was Shōyō’s savior, but it was also his murderer.

Shōyō blinks, lethargic, as he sinks down to earth. Kenma is still there, a warm presence, currently battling another Pokémon trainer. For a while, Shōyō observes the way Kenma’s golden ( _familiar, familiar, familiar_ ) eyes narrow in concentration, and the way his tongue sticks out. They’re adorable traits from childhood, and Shōyō wishes he had some sort of dedication. What is Shōyō good at?

_Volleyball._

Dying.

“Shō,” Kenma says, his soft voice floating to Shōyō’s ears. “I have a friend who wants to meet you—but you don’t need to meet them if you don’t want to. Kuroo says hi, by the way.”

Shōyō blinks, slow, and raises an eyebrow.

Kenma understands, like always, and continues, “It’s Akaashi Keiji. I don’t know what they want to talk to you about, but they said it was sort of important, I suppose.”

“They?” Shōyō questions, voice soft and coarse. Wasn’t Akaashi one person?

“Oh,” Kenma murmurs, and swiftly finishes his battle to continue the quest. “Akaashi uses gender neutral pronouns.”

Shōyō nods, and focuses his attention on Kenma’s game. Nonetheless, his mind wanders. Did he truly want a stranger to see him like this? A stranger who knew Kenma, no less? The hospital staff and patients were different—they were used to this. Besides, what did Akaashi have to say to him? Seeing that his little brother was in deep thought, Kenma continues to play his game. Like they used to, when they were younger, he’d wait for Shōyō to finish reading the cut scenes and dialogue before continuing.

They settle into a comfortable atmosphere, and Shōyō almost forgets about Akaashi Keiji.

“Shō,” Kenma says. “Your answer?”

“Yes,” Shōyō murmurs, half curled on his brothers’ lap. “But…” the words are swallowed by his lungs, and Shōyō snaps his mouth shut with an audible click. Inevitably, he tenses as if awaiting a blow. He had said the forbidden word: “but”. It implies backtalk, and disobedience, and a flying, punishing limb would always accompany it. Shōyō trembles in his Kenma’s arms but all his brother does is softly play with his curls.

“Don’t worry,” Kenma murmurs, voice angelic to Shōyō’s ears. “I’ll be there.”

_“You flinch too much.”_

It was such a simple statement—simple words spilling off a simple tongue. Those simple words had become a catalyst, and then it wasn’t so simple anymore. A few days pass, and Yamaguchi waits for him in the rec room. There’s someone else with him, someone with a stature shorter than Shōyō and a strand of dyed hair. Nishinoya Yū was the guardian deity of Karasuno, protector of friends, and he had failed Hinata Shōyō. He had failed Hinata as his senior, as his teammate, and as his friend. Guilt boiled in his veins for seven weeks before he grasped the courage to visit the redhead.

“Morning, Shōyō,” Nishinoya greets warmly.

Shōyō blinks.

By the way Nishinoya is unperturbed by the silence, Shōyō guesses that Yamaguchi had given him a warning before entering the hospital. Disappoint makes itself comfortable in Shōyō’s bones—it’s another day marking Tobio’s absence. Has he done something wrong? Was Tobio sour with him? In silence, they play Go Fish. It’s the only card game Shōyō knows how to play. Ever since his mother left, Shōyō didn’t have time for childhood games.

“How are you doing?” Nishinoya asks as he hands Yamaguchi a Queen.

“Okay,” Shōyō replies, reorganizing his cards.

His monosyllabic response opens the floodgate to Nishinoya’s stories. For the next two hours, Shōyō is regaled with tales of the coming-and-goings of Karasuno’s Volleyball Club. Yamaguchi adds a quip here and there, and his soft chuckles floats in the room. They’re the only ones in the rec room because everyone else is outside, enjoying the fresh air before winter caressed Japan in a possessive embrace. Nishinoya and Yamaguchi are content inside, however, and they don’t ask why they’re inside rather than out.

Shōyō is so used to being enclosed behind four walls, that he is disturbed by the outside world on most days. It isn’t healthy, being coped up in the hospital, but until the staff sees it fit to force him outside, Shōyō will gladly stay indoors.

“I’m glad you’re getting better, Shōyō,” Nishinoya tells him as they’re about to leave. Shōyō has the energy to walk them to the lobby under the watchful eye of the orderlies scattered about. He can see that they’re overjoyed over his supposed progress. Shōyō is terrified to admit it (what if it gets taken away? What if he never sees it again?) but hope blossoms in his heart at the sight of Nishinoya’s smile.

Of course, like always, the hope is swallowed by a cold despair only a few seconds later.

“I’m glad you survived.”

The floor consumes Shōyō whole.

He is tired.

_I don’t want to survive anymore._

Shōyō is tired of surviving.

_I want to live._

If Shōyō isn’t a survivor, then what is he?

It’s a Thursday when Shōyō comes back to himself. It unnerves him, the way he blanks out at the simplest of words. _Survive._ What a horrible, horrible word. Shōyō was floating, drifting through the planes of his mind, for three days. The last he remembers was a visit from Nishinoya and Yamaguchi, but that visit was on a Monday. It is terrifying, the way he can still black out and dissociate. According to a nurse, whom is relieved to the brink of tears at seeing him alert, Shōyō was comatose and completely unresponsive for the past few days.

Like seven weeks ago, when he first arrived, they had to feed him through an IV-Drip.

His mother had visited (and was also, promptly, horrified at his state) while he was a ghost, but Shōyō doesn’t remember that.

What is Shōyō, if he is not a ghost?

If he is dead, then why does he live?

His heart beats, but he does not breathe.

_In and out; in and out._

When Shōyō meets Akaashi Keiji in person, leaves are scattered on the ground. It’s the end of fall, and winter is greeting Japan like old friends. Slouching against a cold bench, blankly staring at a pile of leaves, is how Kenma and Akaashi find him. Few orderlies amble about, keeping a stern eye on the patients and their guests. Kenma and Akaashi make themselves comfortable on the bench, and a comforting aura stretches over Shōyō.

“Shō,” Kenma says as he turns on his 3ds. “This is Akaashi Keiji. Akaashi, this is my little brother, Shōyō.”

Shōyō hums. Words were difficult to form the past few days, drowning in his lungs before they could shape. His thoughts rampaged in his mind, filled with the desire of what he can never have.

The world was simpler, seven weeks ago, when Shōyō lived in a house of scattered dreams.

“Hello, Hinata-san,” Akaashi greets.

 _Pretty,_ Shōyō thinks as he peers at them. He can’t help but think that his brother is prettier. _What do they want? What will they say?_

Slyly, Kenma is listening to his games’ soundtrack, headphones plugged into his ears, so that their conversation remains private. Shōyō observes Akaashi swallowing.

Akaashi breathes in deeply. “You did it, Hinata-san. You got out.”

_“Do you want to get out?”_

“Are you happy?”

Shōyō shrugs, curious and wary. Kenma continues to play.

“You’re probably wondering why I’m here,” Akaashi says, a light laugh in their voice. “I mean, I’m a stranger.” Akaashi sighs. “What I’m trying to say is that—well…I know what it’s like, Hinata-kun.”

_“I know what it’s like.”_

Shōyō’s eyes are intimidating, the way they bore into Akaashi’s. Like Yamaguchi, Akaashi is a kindred soul. Letters dissipate in his lungs, words melt on his tongue, sentences die on his lips, but there are words swimming in his eyes. What a simple action, hearing the murmurs of a silent boy. What a simple, complex mind.

A small, somber smile dances on Akaashi’s lips.

“Yeah, we’re very similar, Hinata-san,” Akaashi says.

“Shōyō,” slips off his tongue. The word is easy, dripping off his lips. Akaashi blinks at him, puzzled. Shōyō repeats himself. Their eyes brighten with understanding. Next to Akaashi, Kenma smiles quietly.

“Keiji,” Akaashi tells him. Their eyes are warm and soft. “Thank you for seeing me today, H—Shōyō.” Akaashi tells him as he and Kenma prepare to depart. Shōyō is almost disappointed that they’re leaving, but the disappointment is swallowed by indifference. In the end, everyone always leaves. “It was a pleasure meeting you.”

Just like Nishinoya, hope blossoms at the sight of Akaashi’s smile. Like Nishinoya, it is a smile that whispers _it is going to be okay, you are not alone._

“You’re popular these past few days,” Mizutani chirps as Shōyō drifts back to his room. His limbs are lightweight, and he is a ghost drifting with the wind. There is a melancholic smile on Mizutani’s lips. “You’re so lucky, Hinata-kun. So lucky.”

Shōyō has been called many, many names in his life—lucky was never one of them.

_“THAT’S MY SON_ _—_ _MY SHŌYŌ_ _—_ _WHAT THE FUCK DID YOU DO TO MY SON_ _—_ _”_

_“It’s going to be okay, shrimp-chan_ _—_ _you’re gonna – you’re gonna live, you hear me?”_

If Shōyō is lucky, why does he suffer?

Hours drift into days, and days drift into weeks, and there is little progress for Shōyō. He is stuck, and words fade on his lips like clockwork. Shadows are heavy underneath his eyes, and his clothes hang on his thin frame. Energy seldom comes, and Shōyō is a snail when he once was a cheetah. Monsters haunt his dreams instead of chase his heels. Uneventful sleep is a hazy, shattered memory. Dr. Kaneko vainly tries to pry Shōyō’s secrets, but Shōyō has been silent for half his life.

(he will take his secrets to the grave).

His mother visits with stories of Natsu’s latest shenanigans (she was a detector for an entire week), and Kenma brings another 3ds (they play Animal Crossing), and Kuroo tags along sometimes with his lazy smirk and solemn eyes, and Yamaguchi visits whenever he can. Sometimes Nishinoya tags along, sometimes it’s Tsukishima. Sometimes Akaashi pops in, with their kind eyes, and stories of a boy named Bokuto Kōtarō.

Tobio has yet to make an appearance.

Recovery is synonymous to hope, but hope is a fleeting emotion. It comes and goes, and wreaks havoc when it leaves. Hope leaves scars, and it stains the blood of the living. It festers, and it poisons, and it is very cruel. There is nothing hopeful about recovery, and relapse, and stagnancy, yet people always find reasons to dredge that emotion, pour it in their veins as though it were a drug.

Hope is cruel, and Shōyō knows that very well.

(but hope blossoms and it breathes, and air enters his lungs easily now)

Maybe all of this was for naught. Maybe Shōyō will never get better. Maybe, for the rest of his life, he will only speak in monosyllabic replies. Maybe his father will continue to be a haunting apparition. Maybe Natsu will grow up remembering Shōyō as an older brother who once lived and died for an abusive father. Maybe visits will become scarce as everyone moves on, and Shōyō remains the ghost that he has become. Yet hope flutters and it blossoms inside of his (empty, empty) heart, and it becomes easier to breathe.

 _There is still hope,_ a nurse murmurs to him one night.

_There will always be hope._

_“Do you want to get out?”_

Snow has fallen in the Miyagi Prefecture, and the staff is a flutter with plans. Piecing together their whispers, Shōyō has concluded a plan to surprise the patients a trip to the local shrine for the New Years. When was the last time Shōyō visited a shrine? On New Year’s Day, Shōyō was forced to submit to his fathers’ whims, and the day was spent fetching alcoholic beverages for the man and his friends before he’d hide in his room for the rest of the night.

Ironically, Shōyō spends time outside than in. The cold air is biting to his lungs, but the burn makes Shōyō feel alive, makes him remember that he is here. The pain, to Shōyō, means he is not a ghost entirely. His heart is strong as it flutters against his chest, and Shōyō has to wonder how long it will be before it inevitable breaks.

Winter is a paradox. It brings death, but it breathes life. It is the end of a beginning, and the beginning of an end. Shōyō is a paradox. He is dead, but he lives. He is a ghost, but he is physical. His heart doesn’t beat, but blood flows through his veins. He is empty, but he cries. He is cynical, but hope sprouts from his lungs. He is silent, but words are whispered from his eyes. Shōyō is empty, but he feels the weight of the world.

If Shōyō is dead, why does he breathe?

Sessions with Dr. Kaneko have increased, as though the man senses Shōyō’s determination to live. They’ve taken to communicating via small whiteboards. Dr. Kaneko has a collection of markers in various colors. With some amusement, Shōyō chooses a color based on his mood. Dr. Kaneko has, most likely, figured it out but Shōyō assumed he feigned ignorance. Slowly, as the days grow longer, Shōyō gathers the strength to reply with more than one word.

To others, Shōyō’s progress may seem small but, to him, it is monumental.

Hope is cruel but sometimes (sometimes) it is gentle.

_“I want to be happy.”_

Shōyō wants to be happy.

He wants to live.

He wants to feel the pulsing beat of his heart, feel the stretch of his lungs.

 “The new year will be forgiving,” Sakurai Mai says as they play Go Fish one afternoon. “It’s going to get better.”

And, as Shōyō wakes on the morning they’re attending the shrine, it does. Surprisingly, his health is flourishing (food doesn’t nauseate him anymore), his nightmares are receding (it is being replaced by recent memories of a smiling mother, a quiet brother, a blossoming hope), words are sliding off his tongue (but there are moments, days, when Shōyō has reached his limit), and air slowly, slowly, breathes inside of his lungs.

Shōyō isn’t happy (not yet), but he is finding the courage to swim.

“I’m so excited!” Aoki Rei murmurs, bundled up in matching scarves and mittens. “I’ve never been to a shrine before.” Her eyes glisten with child-like excitement, and Shōyō is reminded that he is not the only one who is suffering.

Dr. Kaneko fixes Shōyō’s hat and smiles warmly at him (something warm pools in Shōyō’s stomach as he thinks, _why can’t this man be my father instead_ ). “All ready to go, Hinata-kun?”

Shōyō nods, murmurs a soft, “yes,” and they are piled into a van. They’ll be in a group of two, plus one chaperone, and will leave as it gets crowded, being mindful of those who were uneasy in crowds. Shōyō is paired with Mizutani, and Dr. Kaneko is their babysitter. The crowd is light, but noise clamors loudly on the walkway.

Mizutani pulls them towards various events and activities, eyes alit with an emotion never seen in his orbs, and Shōyō is, dare he say it, somewhat content. His cheeks are tinged with pink, and his throat is sore due to the bitter cold, but he has never felt such warmth in his life. The line to pray is, thankfully, short, and Shōyō copies Mizutani’s movements.

He is not the most religious person out there, but Shōyō thinks, closes his eyes, and prays.

_“Be happy, Shōyō.”_

If Shōyō does not suffer, how will he feel?

The crowds begin to thicken with people, and Mizutani’s bright mood sours. He tenses at Shōyō’s side, and Dr. Kaneko calls it a day. His bones are light, and his body caressed by a warmth he’d thought he’d never feel again, so Shōyō doesn’t complain. As they weave through the thrum of people, the night sky twinkles above them.

There is a voice, urgent and desperate, behind him. It was a whisper, but it was a whisper capable of moving mountains. “Shōyō?”

His heart shudders as he turns and breathes, “Tobio-chan.”

Irritation flutters over his childhood friends’ eyes. “Drop the -chan,” Tobio mutters, sticking his hands in his pocket. He’s dressed as though he had come back from a run.

“Never,” Shōyō says, a hint of a smile pulling at his lips.

“Who’s this?” Dr. Kaneko questions, blinking curiously at Tobio.

“K-Kageyama Tobio,” Tobio greets, bowing in his stiffly polite way. “Shōyō’s childhood friend.”

Shōyō eyes Dr. Kaneko, a question pooling in his eyes. The psychiatrist sighs fondly (but Shōyō’s insides freeze because sighs. Sighs have never been a good sign for him), and checks the time on his watch (here is where Mizutani flinches quietly, shrinking and shifting before Shōyō’s eyes), before he says, “Five minutes is all I can give you, Hinata-kun.”

Shōyō nods. Five minutes is more than enough.

(five minutes is the difference between what makes a human and what creates a ghost)

Shōyō and Tobio shuffle off to the side, where they aren’t in anyone’s way. Shōyō breathes, in and out, and his lungs burn with the air. For a minute, Tobio is silent as he stares at Shōyō, drinking in the others’ appearance.

“Tobio,” Shōyō begins but the words that bubble in his lungs are trapped on his tongue. “I—,”

“I’m sorry,” Tobio cuts him off. Shōyō has seen many emotions from Kageyama Tobio—but Shōyō has never witnessed the agony curling in Tobio’s eyes before. “I’m _so sorry_ , Shōyō.”

Shōyō blinks.

“I wasn’t there—I – I _abandoned_ you w-when you needed me the—I couldn’t even _visit_ —so disgusted with myself,” Tobio babbles, stutters, and tears (actual tears.  _When was the last time Tobio cried?_ Shōyō thinks). “I’m so sorry, Shōyō. Please. _Please.”_

Shōyō’s body moves on its own accord. Before he realizes it, he has pulled Tobio into a tight embrace. His thought echo loudly in his mind. _When was the last time I hugged someone? When was the last time someone hugged me?_ Tobio’s arms do not feel like his fathers. The breath on his neck is not riddled with alcohol. The warmth he feels is not poisoned.

His lips brush against Tobio’s ear. “I forgive you, Tobio.”

There was nothing to forgive, Shōyō never blamed Tobio (because, in the end, Tobio was just a kid. Shōyō was a kid (but his father didn’t care about that)).

Tobio tightens his arms around Shōyō, shoulders trembling with swallowed sobs, and he cries, softly, passionately (like everything Tobio does), “Thank God— _thank god you lived.”_

Lived.

 ~~Survived~~.

In that moment, Shōyō feels infinite.

(he is alive)

There are words dancing on his tongue. There are stories storming in Shōyō’s mind. His heart is beating underneath his skin. His lungs stretch with each breath. The new year begins with Tobio quietly, awkwardly, visiting him with Yamaguchi and Tsukishima. The trio refuses to complain about the weather when Shōyō shepherds them outside, because they see the way the cold makes Shōyō look peaceful, makes him look as though he were never a ghost in the first place. The new year begins with a hope settling its roots at the bottom of Shōyō’s heart and, during the middle of the night, he wakes to feel it blossom. The new year begins with soft, hesitant smiles and quiet, brittle laughs.

The new year begins with words falling off Shōyō’s tongue.

The new year has commenced; Shōyō breathes, and rekindles a passion for a sport he once abandoned.

He is living. He is breathing. He is growing. He is fighting. He is smiling. The halls echo with his laughter. The rooms are vibrant with his words. The dark echoes fade from underneath his mothers’ eyes, and Kenma is much more spirited when he visits. The new year has brought developments in Akaashi’s life as well, and Shōyō finally met the boy who saved their life.

Yet there are words bubbling on Shōyō’s tongue. There are stories crawling out of the depths of his thoughts. There are sentences yearning to be spun, and metaphors wishing to be heard. Research papers and essays are outlined in his throat, and they drip, drip, drip from his lungs. Letters dance on his skin, crawl out of his fingers, wrap around his wrist. As hope continues to bloom, and words pitter-patter in his heart, Shōyō is finding it difficult to stay quiet.

(but he has been silent for so long, he does not remember the sound of his own voice)

( _ ~~he will take these secrets to his grave~~_ )

But Shōyō breathes, and he listens to his creaking lungs, and thinks, _I will die like this._

If Shōyō does not grow, how will he live?

~~If Shōyō can’t evolve, how will he survive?~~

The new year is synonymous to hope, and hope shackles itself to Shōyō’s veins. The days continue to tick, and Shōyō finds himself sitting in Dr. Kaneko’s office in an impromptu visit. The man blinks at him, surprised at being sought out, but kindness still lingers in his eyes as he gazes upon one of his patients. Dr. Kaneko waits, patient, like always, as he watches Shōyō grip a marker in his hands. The office is silent, but it is warm.

If Shōyō has words, why is he silent?

  _My father is gone,_ Shōyō repeats to himself and swallows. His grip on the marker is a means of chaining him to reality as he stares at a man with the same stature as the monster who contributed to half his genes. Shōyō breathes, and air rattles in his lungs. Words form coherent structures on his tongue, and tremble with excitement.

_“Do you want to get out?”_

Shōyō opens his mouth, opens his heart, bares his lungs, and the stories that haunts his soul spills off his tongue.

_“I want to be happy.”_

 

**Author's Note:**

> Hope you all enjoyed it, and that I didn't disappoint!!


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